by Loren, Celia
“Secret…” he says. I wait for him to elaborate, but all I hear is heavy breathing, and when I look back, he’s asleep.
I sigh and clench the wheel a little tighter. I want to ignore what Marcus is saying, but it’s tough with Drifter not telling me his side of the story.
We pull into the driveway, and I have never been so thankful that we have a garage. I do not want to run through this storm again. I pull in and close the door behind me. I glance into the back seat, where Marcus is still passed out. I frown at him. There’s no way I can carry him inside, so I guess I’ll just leave him in the car. I roll down the windows and turn the car off.
I get out and open the door to the house. The dogs are waiting for me and jump up, glad to see me, but anxious because of the weather. Scout particularly doesn’t like storms, and from the ways he’s acting I think the thunder’s about to hit us, though his dog ears have probably already heard it. I leave the door to the garage about halfway open so it doesn’t get too stuffy and call the dogs into kitchen with me. I grab a couple treats from the cupboard under the sink and they follow me into the living room.
I sit on the carpeted floor and they sit next to me, awaiting their snack. I hand one to each of them, and they take them gently in their mouths. They lie down next to me to munch on their treats, and I curl up next to them.
The first distant peal of thunder sounds and Scout whimpers. I wrap an arm around him as I wonder how Drifter is doing. I find his relationship with Marcus confusing, and I just want to know what happened between them. I lean my head down onto Kalb’s ribcage. He picks his head up to look at me, then lays it back down.
I stare up at the roof, listening to the hypnotic sound of the rain and hoping that Drifter will be home soon.
Chapter Six
Drifter
15 years ago
I perch on the small stool behind the counter. This Shell station was the only place where I could find a job. Even with the protein powder that Flint got me, I haven’t been able to add more than a couple pounds, and I think it’s because I don’t get enough to eat. I know I can’t count on the Ralstons to feed me any more, so I got this job working behind the counter at the gas station.
I flip through the Algebra II book in front of me and sigh. Math has been the hardest subject to keep up as I’ve switched schools, because it all builds on what came before. In English, if I haven’t read all the same books, it’s OK, I can just pick up with the next one. Or even science, if I come halfway through Chemistry, well at least next year I can start new with Physics. But with Math, it seems like I keep needing the same skills. Ones I don’t have.
When I transferred to this school in the middle of last year, my teacher for Algebra I really tried to help me. I was doing OK by the end of the year, but this year my teacher, Mrs. Veerland, won’t stop to explain anything and just plows right ahead.
A flash of white catches my eye and I glance outside to the pump, where a white Toyota is pulling up. I stand and walk to the door and groan. Shit. It’s Derek and a bunch of his friends. Fucking Oregon. If only I could just stay in here while he pumps his own gas. But no, in Oregon and New Jersey it’s illegal to pump your own gas, which means right now I have to go out and pump fucking Derek’s gas.
There’s always one guy in a new school, and at this one it’s Derek. I walk outside, and as I reach the pump, I glance inside the driver’s window questioningly, keeping my expression professional.
“Fill it up,” Derek says, not even looking at me. I don’t think he’s recognized me yet, that’s just how he would treat anyone he views as working for him. His parents are rich, and I bet he’s never even had a summer job.
I walk to the back of his car, unscrew the gas cap and place the nozzle inside. Derek’s around 5’10”, but when I transferred here last year, he was taller than me. Now I’m almost 6’1”, but he’s the captain of the wrestling team and has the nonexistent neck to prove it.
I hear a burst of laughter from the car and know without looking that Derek and his friends have recognized me. I hear my new nickname, “Skeletor,” being tossed around. Derek coined it when we came back to school in the fall and I was so tall and thin. I grit my teeth and stare at the numbers on the pump as they flip over.
The nozzle clicks, the tank is full. I pull it out and screw the gas cap back on, pushing the cover closed. Derek turns on the car and the radio blasts a Green Day song. I replace the nozzle on the pump and walk back to the driver’s window.
“That’ll be…” I begin.
The rest of my sentence is drowned out by the sound of screeching tires as Derek peels out of the gas station without paying, the sound of he and his friends’ cackling laughter rising above the radio.
“Motherfucker,” I swear, balling my fists in anger. I glance at the price on the pump. With that coming out of my paycheck, and making minimum wage, I’ll barely take home five dollars today. Rage fills me. I know there’s no point in calling the cops. If I did, Derek would just make it a point to make my life at school a living hell. What a piece of shit.
The rest of the day I can’t concentrate at all on my homework. All of my Saturday spent here and it’ll basically be a complete waste.
The next Monday at school, my anger still hasn’t abated. In fact, a pop quiz in math has only made it worse. I shove my books in my locker harder than I need to and slam it.
“Jeez,” I hear behind me. I turn to see Ava standing there, and my expression immediately softens. She looks painfully hot as always, in frayed white denim shorts and a tight pink t-shirt, her dark brown hair falling around her shoulders. She smiles shyly as I turn, and tucks her hair behind her ear. Is it my imagination, or is she actually blushing?
“You OK?” she asks, her voice just above a whisper. I glance around the halls at the dozen or so other people mingling between classes. I can’t believe she’s talking to me. She’s one of the most popular girls in school, the subject of many of my fantasies, and Derek’s girlfriend. I cannot believe that prick gets to touch a girl like this.
“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” I murmur. Well, at least my voice didn’t crack.
“God, I never noticed how tall you are,” she observes, cocking her head to the side and studying me. The bell rings, and the other people in the hallway start to mill away.
“I’ve grown a lot.” Wow, smart one, Scott. How the fuck else would you become tall?
“How come you don’t play sports? Basketball or something?” she asks, frowning. “Season’s about to start. I know they could use someone. I’m a cheerleader,” she says, by way of explanation.
“I know,” is all I can think to say. There is not a guy in this school who has not thanked God for the creation of cheerleading skirts and the luck to be able to see Ava wearing one. White. With pleats. I tuck the rest of my books carefully in front of my crotch.
She’s looking at me expectantly. OK, small talk, right.
“You…do OK on that pop quiz?” I ask finally, and am rewarded with a smile.
“Yeah, I think so, I…” she trails off as she glances down the hall. I follow her gaze and see Derek standing at the end of it, staring at us. I hear her take a quick sip of air as he clenches his fists and starts walking quickly and purposefully toward us.
I turn to him, shifting my books to my left hand as my adrenaline picks up.
A door opens a few feet beyond where Derek has just stormed past, and a teacher pokes his head out.
“Derek, will you be joining us anytime soon?” he asks sarcastically.
Derek glances back toward me, then grunts and turns back to his classroom. Ava gives me a quick, apologetic smile and scurries off in the other direction. As Derek heads into his classroom, the teacher eyes me suspiciously.
“I assume you have somewhere to be,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” I answer, turning and walking the same direction as Ava. And now I’m late.
As I walk down the hall to class, I sigh. I know Derek
’s not the forgetting type.
Chapter Seven
Violet
Present Day
“Good catch, Violet,” Dr. Green compliments me.
“Thanks, Dr. Gr—er, Adam,” I reply, finishing my notes at the nurses’ station.
“Saturday night palsy…is that a term you came up with?”
“Oh, no…I just heard it around.” Actually, one of the Sons got it last year and was diagnosed by a doctor much more experienced in the ways of the world than Dr. Green.
“Saturday Night Palsy” is a name for a condition that happens when someone falls asleep drunk and sitting up, with their arm resting on the back of the couch next to them. Normally when someone falls asleep like that, they’ll wake up when their arm falls asleep and readjust. But when you’re wasted, you stay in that position without shifting, and your arm goes without blood and oxygen for too long. You wind up with nerve damage that can take months to heal.
The patient who came in was saying he got it on a job site and was applying for worker’s comp, and Dr. Green thought everything was hunky-dory. Normally I wouldn’t have pressed a patient so hard for details, but he made a racist comment about Abby to me when he came in, as though I would agree with him. It felt good to call him out on his bullshit claim.
“You just heard it around?” Dr. Green repeats incredulously, and grins. “You are just…” he trails off and blushes, and I glance at him. He knows he almost went too far.
“Well, I better head home. See you tomorrow!” I say cheerily, trying to skate over any awkwardness. I see him wave at me as I head down the hall to the elevators.
Actually, I just told a little white lie. I’m not heading home. I’m going to stop by the HR department to see if Marcus really dropped off his application like he said he did. I feel a little slimy checking up on him, but I didn’t like his leading comments about Drifter last weekend. And all he’s been doing since then is going out mysteriously, and Drifter won’t press him on it. We never talked about the night he got drunk and I picked him up at a strip club.
The elevator doors ding open on the fourth floor and I swipe my pass to get into the HR department. I see Becca sitting at her desk and wave. She smiles back.
“Hey, we’re having trouble filling that job,” she begins without my prompting. “Your friend still looking for something?”
“Oh, you know, I was just stopping by to ask about that. He…um, had to go out of town, but I’ll tell him you’re still looking. He’ll be happy to know,” I don’t know why I’m covering for Marcus, except that if he does ever want to come in for the job, I hope they’ll still want to give it to him.
“OK, let him know!” she replies.
“Thanks!” I say, waving goodbye. As I step back into the elevator and ride it down to the staff locker room where I change out of my scrubs, the frustration that I’ve been feeling ever since Marcus started living with us rises to the surface. If he didn’t want the job, he could have just told me. There is way too much lying going on, and it’s starting to feel far too similar to my previous life, when I was married Rooster.
The thought chills me. I never thought I could compare my life with Drifter to my life with Rooster. I remember feeling like I was living in a fog, and I could only see a couple feet ahead of me. But when I met Drifter, the fog started to clear, and eventually I could see everything around me; my vision was unclouded. And now some fog is starting to settle in again.
I tap my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as I drive home. The good thing about starting my day so early is that I’m done at 4 o’clock, so I still have plenty of the day left.
As I turn onto our street I see Marcus pulling his old clunker out of the driveway, headed in the opposite direction on one of his trips. I grip the wheel a little harder and press my foot down on the gas. I drive right past our house and after Marcus.
I’m tired of the mystery. I want to know.
At what I hope is a safe distance, I follow Marcus down side streets to a much seedier part of town. We drive through a neighborhood filled mostly with abandoned houses, and into an industrial area of town that I’m not at all familiar with. I drop even further back, since there aren’t many cars on the road.
He slows down and pulls to the side of the street, parking his car against the curb. I quickly pull over too, about 100 feet behind him. I watch him get out and glance around, then walk across the sidewalk and disappear inside a building. I frown. What the fuck is he doing here?
I turn off my engine and get out of the car. I walk down the cracked sidewalk, sticking close to the buildings. As I get closer to the building Marcus went into, I hear loud voices…and music?
I see a small sign hanging above the door as I approach. I squint at it. It’s just two eights next to each other. They’re painted in dark grey against a black background, so it’s tough to make out. If that’s the name of the bar, it’s not very good advertising.
I peer in through a dirty window, and am surprised to be looking into a rather crowded room. Pretty early on a weekday for an out-of-the-way place like this.
I scan the bar, but don’t see Marcus. So…what? He’s a bartender?
I frown, and decide that since I’ve come this far, I want to know for sure. I walk as confidently as I can up to the door, and pull it open. A few people glance my way as I enter, but no one raises the alarm or anything. I’m glad I’m not wearing my cut today. I think it would attract too much attention.
I slide warily onto a stool at the closest end of the bar, where I can have a view of the rest of the room. I don’t want Marcus to just walk up behind me. I see the bartender, a white guy with a shaved head, eye me from the other end of the bar, and then walk slowly over. He looks me up and down then raises his eyebrows expectantly.
“Whatever’s on tap,” I answer to his nonverbal question. As he turns and reaches out his right arm to grab a glass, I spot a tattoo on the inside of his forearm. It’s an eagle with its wings spread wide, and its talons are clutching a swastika.
I look away quickly before he sees me staring at it. I try to turn casually in my chair toward the rest of the bar, and glance around nonchalantly. Yep, definitely only white people in here. And definitely more than a coincidental number of shaved heads. And there, another swastika tattoo on the bicep of a guy seated on a couch.
No doubt about it now: I’m definitely in a skinhead bar. Or is it neo-Nazi? Whatever, I don’t know the difference. All I know is, I definitely don’t want to be here.
The bartender drops my beer on the bar, startling me. I jump a little in my seat, and try to give him a polite smile to cover it up.
“How much?” I ask.
He looks me up and down again, then licks his lips.
“Purebred-looking girl like you…no charge,” he murmurs lasciviously.
I smile tightly and take a ten out of my wallet and slide it across to him.
“Keep the change,” I reply, and take a sip of the beer.
He frowns, and opens his mouth to say something more when a door at the back of the bar flies open, and a couple more skinheads fall out, laughing hysterically. The door sticks open, and I lean over on my stool to try to get a better view of where they’re coming from.
I spot several round tables, with men sitting around each one. They don’t all look like skinheads, though, and most of them are holding playing cards. I scan the room quickly, and suddenly spot Marcus. He’s sitting with his profile to me, frowning down at the cards in his hand.
My mouth drops open in surprise. Even though I followed him here, it’s still a shock to see him in a place like this. My gaze shifts as a figure passes by the door and walks around to the rear of the nearest card table. The man is well-built, with a dark, almost black beard that’s several inches long. His head, like so many of the others, is shaved. He leans down to speak to the dealer, and I can tell by the way the dealer responds that the man has some authority.
I’m not sure why he has caught my attent
ion. I realize I’m staring and look away quickly. I frown…something about the man’s eyes. I’ve seen him before but he looks so different.
My head snaps back to the room as I realize who it is: Ace. Rooster’s best friend. I thought he was dead.
Chapter Eight
I stare at Ace through the open door, my heart stopped in my chest. Another skinhead approaches him and whispers something in his ear.
Suddenly, my vision is cut off as someone realizes the door is ajar and shuts it. A lightheaded feeling comes over me and I realize I’m about to have an anxiety attack. I slip off the stool and head out onto the street, forcing myself to walk slowly until I’m away from the building, and then I allow myself to run back to my car.
With shaking hands, I open the door, and struggle to get the keys into the ignition. The car turns on, and I peel away from the curb. I drive two blocks, and my vision starts to pinhole.
I pull to the side of the road, worried I’m about to black out and crash. I take my hands off the wheel and force myself to take a deep breath. I take my purse from the passenger seat and dig around inside for my phone. I flip it open and am about to select Drifter’s number from the favorites list. But I pause.
The first thing he’s going to ask is why I was in some skinhead bar/gambling den in the first place. And then I will say I was following Marcus, which he is not going to like. I told him I would leave it alone and here I am doing the opposite.
I put down the phone and turn on the radio. There’s a soothing Phil Collins song on, so I sing along a little. It will help me breathe more deeply, which I need to do because I’m definitely hyperventilating; I can feel tingling in my fingers already.
I glance into my side mirror just to make sure no one has followed me out of the bar. Ace’s face pops into my head again and I can feel my heart speed back up.